Page 25 of Her Pretty Words
He smiles, like that’s exactly what he thinks.
I say slowly, so each word hits its mark, “While you’re ‘out working’ I’ve mastered the art of creating a perfect fictional man. Every detestable trait you possess gets written down solely so I can ensure the men in my books are nothing like you. Every love interest I’ve ever created is so carefully opposite to you that they don’t even share the same eye color.” I slam my laptop shut and pull out my phone.
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over my mom in my contact list. I want to tell her I’m calling off the wedding, but for some reason I can’t. Maybe Walter is right. Maybe I do self-sabotage. Just not in the way he thinks.
I hate myself for staying with him, but what will I do if I leave? Both of our names are on the house I paid for. I’ve put all the deposits down on the wedding and sent invitations to everyone in town. Worst of all, my parents think he’s perfect.
I clench my fists in and out and decide I can’t sit still in this anger. I’m afraid I’ll explode, so I do something I’ve never done recreationally. I put on a pair of sneakers and run.
The sun has barely made it over the horizon, meaning it’s around three in the morning in Idaho. Walter decided to video call me—for the first time since I’ve left—at three in the fuckingmorning. As if I was the afterthought that finally caught up to him before going to bed.
I don’t focus on anything as I take off into a full-blown sprint in the middle of the street. I’ll run all the way to the other end of Florida if that’s what it takes to feel slightly better about my life’s circumstances. But I’m winded by the time I make it to the stop sign at the end of my street. I clutch at my knees to keep myself from falling over.
“Nowit’s a good morning,” a husky male’s voice says from behind me.
I glare over my shoulder at a chipper Grayson, who’s sporting loose black joggers and sneakers. No shirt. His hair looks like he just ran his fingers through it, except for one strand that falls onto his forehead.
“If you’re this breathless now, I can only imagine what would happen if I ever got my hands on you.” He smirks. “Perhaps I’ll buy you an inhaler for such an occasion.”
I have no words.
He bends at the waist and easily touches his toes for several seconds. He does a range of stretches, never saying another word to me. I just watch, trying to catch my breath and think of a clever comeback to put him in his place, but words don’t come to me at this moment.
“Kidding. That would be a very unneighborly thing to say.” He grins. “And you’re gasping for air because you didn’t pace yourself. Running isn’t always about speed, and if you start off going as fast as you can, well—” He gestures to me and the state I’m in. I straighten self-consciously.
“I always start off slow. At first, it feels like I’m doing nothing, and I want to increase my speed. But after a few minutes I’m dripping in sweat.” He continues to stretch by going up and down on the tips of his toes.
The picture he paints is unwelcomely vivid in my mind, with sweat gleaming on his skin, highlighting every unfair inch of his impressive body.
“Want to run with me?”
“No.”
“Let me rephrase that. I would like it if you ran with me.” He gives me a look I can only describe as puppy dog eyes. “Please?”
“No.”
“Why? You were going to run anyway.”
“You’re going to point out everything I’m doing wrong.”
He stares at me for a moment, his typical grin is absent, like my honesty caught him by surprise. “I’ll let you know if your posture is going to cause shin splints or if you’re about to trip from a pothole in our poorly paved road, but I would never judge you or be a know-it-all prick.” He smirks. “If you want me to get down on my knees and beg, it’s not above me.”
I give him a pointed look, to which he slowly kneels down so his knees are on the asphalt. “Macy Brookes, will you make me the happiest man in the world…” He grins, and I fight back my own at how ridiculous this is. “And run with me on this lovely morning?”
Instead of responding to that, I touch my toes like he did. After about ten seconds I straighten to go into the next stretch I saw him do. There’s a smile etched on his face.
We don’t say anything else to one another. He’s starting into a slow jog that matches the speed of a brisk walk. I match his pace beside him. It’s only a short amount of time before sweat starts beading on my forehead and my lungs beg me to catch my breath.
“Once you push through the initial desire to stop it’ll get easier. Stay with me, Mace.” There he goes again with the nickname that seems to roll off his tongue with ease.
I find a glimpse of will power and push myself to keep running, even though every instinct is telling me to stop. I mark a palm tree in the near distance and decide that I’ll finish once I reach it, but before I even come close, that willpower slips, and I stop. The muscles in my legs are on fire and all my huffing and puffing could blow down that Little Pig’s brick house.
“You made it way farther than I did my first time running,” Grayson says easily, not even slightly winded.
I don’t have the lung capacity to answer.
“You can walk to keep your heartrate up. It’ll help with your stamina.” He ambles back to our houses. I continue beside him, trying to pull enough air into my lungs. “Not that you don’t lookgreatin those pjs, but I think next time athletic clothes would suffice.”